


The Fiddle and the Flute

by GBeanie



Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Angst, Basically joxter and his forebodings have a bad time, Dark Joxter-ish but not really, Family Feels, Gen, Joxter is Overprotective and has Anxiety: a novel, Pining, Witch Curses, Witches, also I guess this is about fatherhood and stuff, its not what you think it is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:27:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26014999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GBeanie/pseuds/GBeanie
Summary: A witch’s curse, a transformation, and a son and father who are at odds in the aftermath. This sudden turmoil ultimately leads the two mumriks to a mysterious magician who offers them powerful gifts to combat the witch's spell. But with every offer, there's always a price. What lengths would a father not go to protect their child? And will this journey concern a certain Moomintroll far greater than anyone could ever expect?
Relationships: Joxaren | The Joxter/Mymlan | The Mymble, Mumintrollet | Moomintroll/Snusmumriken | Snufkin
Comments: 2
Kudos: 28





	1. The Tavern

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was heavily inspired by @abyssalzone on Tumblr for their incredible take on the [Joxter](https://abyssalzones.tumblr.com/post/183300978954/since-moominvalley-is-out-now-thought-id-post-my) , I'm still thinking about it.
> 
> Also! Here's a song reference for what the Tavern patrons sing in this [chapter](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XOmrJk3M6HQ)
> 
> Enjoy!

Somewhere in the northern regions of Finland, far beyond the Lonely Mountains, there lies a village hidden within the woods. This village, for a lack of a better word, is completely ordinary. Guarded by a great wall that stretches all the way round, a cobblestone path leads to rows of houses squeezed together. They take many forms; wooden homes with stone doors, stone homes with wooden doors. And by many, there are only these two varieties. Most of these houses were the essentials of the village; there’s a bakery, a tailor shop, a fish market, a blacksmith, and so on and so forth. The creatures of this village, either couples or families of 2 or 7, have nothing but contentment for their simple lives as they take comfort in its familiarity. In one’s eye, familiarity is home, something long forgotten but always cherished. Whether by the taste of a fish pie or by the sound of creaking wood and crackling fire, one can find happiness by the little things and it brings them back to a time where everything was good.

And what better way to welcome those feelings than through The Tavern. 

The village-folk are a welcoming bunch you see, and they love meeting new faces. Thus the gates of the wall never close and every night the Tavern remains illuminated, bustling with anticipation. For at any moment, a traveler could arrive, and with them their wonderful stories and songs. This town is a magnet to foreigners from around the world, as many strangers and visitors lose their way within the deep forests and winding mountain paths if they’re not familiar with the land. One can easily find themselves in Hemulen Country; it’s difficult enough trying to understand another language, but narrowly getting crushed by white giants (or getting sucked through their vacuums) can take a toll on anybody. Which is why the Tavern is sought as a hidden treasure to many travelers. After a long, sometimes dangerous day, nothing is more rewarding than being handed hot soup, gin and welcoming smiles.

The tavern keepers, Bluma, and her husband, Birch (the bartender), are quite proud of their little business. Moreover, they’re also grateful that the Town’s Master allows strangers to enter their hidden village. If not, they would have just the rowdy townspeople to look after. Which doesn’t sound bad at first, but it gets quite gratetious going “Birch, get the ladder they climbed the roof again” or “Cut off the Fisherman he keeps weeping over that stupid salmon” and of course “FARMER, COBBLER DROP YOUR CHAIRS AND TAKE YOUR SQUABBLE OUTSIDE, NO I DON’T CARE WHO STARTED IT.” New faces kept the regulars at a reasonably tipsy mood, and they at least enraptured them enough to keep the night relatively calm. 

Over the years, many faces have passed through their Tavern; Mumriks, Mymbles, Toffles, or a wild Whomper here or there. All of different sizes, ages, wisdoms, and eccentrics. Sometimes, faces far beyond the mountains rock up to the village. A Selkie or two, a family of Norwegian mountain trolls, or even a Shōjō all the way from Japan, who went through a week’s worth of cranberry wine. This didn’t concern Bluma or Birch at all; as long as their guest was happy and well rested, no mess or small hiccup would change their accommodating demeanor. The sun had long ago hid behind the tips of the Mountains and the sky was now a blanket of stars, and it was time to prepare lodgings and open their doors for the night.

“Do the rooms look presentable, Birchy?” Bluma called to her husband from the bar, cleaning water marks from the glasses.

“Just about!” his chipper voice responded from upstairs. A patter of footsteps paced above the mymble’s head and she smiled to herself. Placing the set of glasses in a row across the bar, she wiped her hands with the cloth and went to the center of the room to scan for anything amiss. The wooden tables and chairs appeared clean and straight, no dust or stains from what she could tell. She went over to the photographs scattered against the wall and checked for any crookedness. Each one told a story, and each one had the couple smiling with the traveler that passed by for the night. Absolutely perfect. She started tying her honey-colored hair into a tight bun as her husband descended the stairs, his long furry ears flopping about,

“Alright, both rooms are ready for tired heads and the kitchen’s prepped for empty bellies!” Birch exclaimed as he approached his beloved. Rummaging through his apron he produced a golden bow tie and placed it squarely in the center of his head. He posed and with a proud smile asked, “How do I look?” 

Bluma clapped her paws together and looked at him with adoring eyes,

“Wonderful as always you silly man,” she cooed. The plump woman came closer to his face and adjusted the bow, “Are daisies not to your liking anymore?” 

Birch shrugged as he gazed at his beautiful wife, blushing at her touches.

“It’s good to change it up every now and again. I might try forget-me-thoughts tomorrow, they bring out my eyes,” he told her (because hats can’t accommodate his long ears, Bluma suggested a creative work around to make his fuzzy blonde noggin look colorful). 

“You mean forget-me _-nots,_ dear,” the woman corrected, booping his pink nose with her finger. Birch grabbed her paws gently into his, smitten, 

“How could anyone forget you?” 

Bluma rolled her eyes, tempted to bap his ears into his face.

“That was terrible,” the mymble chided, rolling her eyes. Birch shrugged again and went towards the window near the corner of the dining room. There in its majesty was a view of the Lonely Mountain in the distance, its top peeking from the tips of the pine trees. It seemed to illuminate in the moon’s wake, a beacon for vagabonds and travelers of all ilk during their nightly adventures. Birch gazed at it longingly, his wife approaching his side as well to admire the mountain’s beauty. Bluma wrapped her arms around her husband’s waist and nestled her chin on his shoulder.

“I wonder who will come by tonight,” the muddler thought aloud.

“Probably another mumrik. Midsummer was last week, so one or two might pass by if they want to beat the Autumn winds,” Bluma mused, planting a kiss on his cheek. Birch blushed, but continued staring at the Mountain. He cocked his head to the side, pondering.

“Perhaps the lad with the green hat will come by then,” he said, “Y’know the one who plays that harmonica.” 

Bluma shook her head.

“No, he only comes by in December,” she said, “Besides, he always seems determined to get to his destination before the winter storms hit.” 

“Oh, you’re right!” Birch exclaimed, “When the first snow begins to fall, I hear him play songs of a free spirit, a winter dove telling us that the season is finally here.”

“Despite dressing like Spring from head to toe,” Bluma chuckled, “Maybe he heralds Winter herself, playing that mouth organ.”

Birch laughed along for a bit, paused, and then an idea popped into his brain.

“Speaking of instruments…” He gently took her arms off his waist and hurried towards the bar. Bluma followed him, befuddled, and watched him duck behind the counter. When he reappeared, a wooden clarinet came with him, placed delicately on the table. 

At first glance it was a simple thing. Carved from the arm of a rosewood tree and coated in a glossy sheen making the light color glow. Despite its best effort, it was still incredibly mundane; one could easily miss it as it camouflaged with any other carpentry. What only caught the eye of any curious creature were the shining keys and pedals, entwining the instrument in a silver embrace. And then there was the reed. Translucent and thin as any other reed yes, but what drew people to it was how _otherworldly_ it was. A midnight sky captured in a mere splinter. Was it purple? Or blue? Maybe both as it seemed to mix within what appeared to be tiny stars, silver and twinkling. It enticed anyone to put the instrument to their lips and play. That’s what Birch loved about it; as a gift bestowed upon him and his wife, he treasured it fondly. And because of this fondness, he looked at Bluma with pleading eyes. Bluma returned those shining eyes with a frown. Because of the clarinet’s “decorations”, it brought nothing but more trouble. For some strange reason, it appeared to possess anyone who played it and drove them mad. And with that in mind, Bluma replied with a simple,

“No.”

Birch’s face fell. “Oh please dear it’s been ages since we’ve got this out.”

“And for good reason!” she cried, snatching the instrument in her paws.

“That was just a one time incident!” The muddler leaned over the counter to reach but her arms were too far as she held up the clarinet. She shook her head at him, waving a finger at his face. Surrendering, he rested his elbows on the table and pressed his palms together, “I promise I’ll watch the patrons extra carefully when they play it! If that is to say if they ask for it.”

“You said that the last time and yet the Fisherman almost rowed off with this darned thing towards the Baltic Sea. Thinking he was going to be the next music maestro!” She lowered her arms and scowled at the wooden instrument, “And thanks to _your_ little instrument, my gingham dress smells like the bottom of a port.” 

“Yes but he’s apologized profusely, my flower!”

“What, the clarinet?”  
“What? No!” Birch laughed, “The Fisherman! He didn’t know what came over him. But you see, the important thing _is-_ ” Birch took the clarinet away from her and held it in his arms like a babe, “-is that we got it back, so no harm is done.”

Bluma pursed her lips and harrumphed, “Then to keep further harm at bay, we are going to keep it in the cellar away from paw’s reach.” 

“But my dearest!-”

“Please Birch,” she pleaded. She drew out a long sigh, “As charming as that Magician was and how appreciative I am about this gift, I think this needs some thinking over. It’s having a nasty effect on our customers this wretched thing. But that’s something to deal with later.” Bluma shook her head and produced a ring of keys from her apron pocket and headed towards the front door.

“ _She didn’t mean that,_ ” Birch whispered to the instrument, cradling it closely. Another idea popped into his fuzzy head.

“We could ask _Her_ maybe?” he contemplated. Bluma stopped in her tracks. She laughed to herself and faced her husband, a warm smile drawn upon her lips.

“Are you sure that’s not just another excuse for her to come over?” she teased. Birch looked away, smiling sheepishly,

“Maybe. Besides, if anyone could make this little clarinet less of a hassle, it would be her.” 

“You’re such a kind soul,” Bluma said, “I’m afraid she’s in the middle of her nightly outing right now. You know how she is.”

“Yes...” Birch mused sadly. The mymble stared at him with mindful eyes,

“ _And_ you know how she feels about visitors, Birch.”

“Yes, Yes,” he groaned. “Well, she has to come by _sometime_. Apple cider is our best seller you know and we always need more.”

“Ah…” Bluma winked, “Then we’ll see.” The tavern keeper turned again to face the door, “Speaking of which, go down and check if those kegs are prepared. And make sure you take ‘you know what’ with you.”

Birch’s ears drooped, “Oh..But Bluma-”

“Now, now silly man,” his wife started, “Just promise me you won’t take it out under any circumstances.”

Birch sighed sadly. But of course, she knew best. And he couldn’t say no to her. 

“Alright, my love,” he said defeatedly. He adjusted his bow and puffed up his chest, “Down I go! Out of sight, out of mind!” Bluma snickered at him as he went towards the cellar door. She turned to the front door and cried,

“I would write a note if I were you, dear!” 

Birch had already descended the stairs at this point but he replied with a loud “yes!” so that she had heard. Reaching the end of the stairs, the bartender pulled down the light chain, engulfing the cellar in a warm and cozy glow. It was a bit small, but it did its job. A shelf containing bottles of ale, beer, and homemade concoctions stood to his right. It was a very tall shelf for the two creatures and they didn’t use it much; he couldn’t even see the top so Booble knows what resided there. Perhaps a few abandoned bottles and some stale crackers. Carefully he placed the clarinet on an empty shelf right in the middle where it met his eyes, reed facing up as not to damage it. He took out his notepad and a pencil, leaving a trail of crushed flower petals to fall from the pages directly to the stone floor. He scribbled his note quickly and ripped it out, placing it over the clarinet. It read:

DO NOT TOCH. STRIKTLY PROHIBITID. UNDUR NO CIRKUMSTANSES!

“There. That ought to do the trick. Especially when the letters are yelling at you like that.” 

He placed the pad back in his apron and stuck the pencil through the knot of his hair bow. And while he was here, might as well check on his Special Cider. Kneeling down to the bottom shelf, he pulled a clean tankard and hurried through the aisle of kegs that rested soundly on their platforms. At the end of the line were two cider kegs, prepared only a few days ago. Humming, he leaned down and pressed upon the lever and let the golden liquid flow into his cup. Pulling it up, he sniffed and swished it round and around and around, catching the bubbles twirling in a waltz. He sipped it gingerly. A burst of summer exploded upon his tongue. It was perfect! 

“As apple-y as an apple could be!” he cried ecstatically. In fact, he wanted another taste. As he pushed the lever down again for more, a sudden chill came upon him.

 _Well that’s odd._ Birch thought. Another gust of chillness fanned through his fur and it dawned on him that it was simply a draft. But why was there a draft? It could only come from…

Birch set down his mug and approached the other cellar door, which led to the outside. Climbing on the first step up, the muddler raised his brow when he saw that the right door was cracked open, letting the nightly air through. He put his paw to his chin.

That’s funny. He didn’t remember going through this door at all today. Unless Bluma did but she always double checked the doors to be secure and locked after every entry. Was the wind so strong tonight that it could open it? After thinking for some time, the creature shrugged and decided it wasn’t worth muddling over for. He climbed further up and pulled the door back in, making sure he heard the lock click from within the wood. With such a pull, his pencil fell from his head and towards the floor. He saw it roll idly down the keg isle, passing by a muddy footprint and almost heading underneath the bottle shelf. With a cry, Birch jumped down the steps and raced towards it before-

Wait. Footprint?

Birch skidded to a stop, flower petals falling from his pockets as he regained his balance. He stood quite still, his heart beginning to beat louder and louder as he watched the pencil disappear underneath the shelf forever. Trembling, the muddler slowly looked down at his two large feet and lifted up his left one. Yes, he was right. For he had stepped into a small, muddy shoe print. No bigger than his wife’s. 

_So yes! That was just his wife earlier! This is a Bluma trail!,_ he thought quite loudly in his head for affirmation. He grinned, overly cheery, putting any other thoughts out of his head as he followed the footprints. Bluma advised him that whenever he felt anxious he ought just to say whatever he thought was logical aloud:

“A wonderful Bluma tr-tr-tr-trail!” he cried, his teeth chattering, “Sh-she was just do-down here working as one does! Do-do-doing what-what she does be-best. Definitely not a ghost or a rob-bb-ber or a m-m-m-” He stopped. The trail of footprints ended at the bottle shelf. And that was it. Birch wiped his forehead and sighed heavily, nearly sinking to the ground. It was just Bluma, nothing to worry about at all. She was just down here checking the cellar, of course she was. That’s why he still felt a chill, like a presence was here. It was her presence, she was down here earlier. That was it. Right?

“Pah!” the bartender slapped his cheeks lightly and shook his head, “Darn you foolish head. There are guests to attend to, no time to be a worry wart!” With that, he straightened his bow once more and took a deep breath, standing proudly. He was going to prove to Bluma that he could do this, to not fall under the pressures of his fellow regulars nor to these troublesome fears. A brave muddler is hard to come by, but in his heart of hearts, it could be done. It could be achieved!

“I won’t be swayed!”

With that, a bottle smashed to the floor and with a piercing shriek Birch scampered up the stairs, arms flailing. He flung open the door and shut it quickly behind him. He gasped for air and tried to calm himself, making sure his worries and fears were put straight behind him as he saw the oncoming crowd enter their tavern. After releasing a huge breath, he hurried over to Bluma and together they greeted a crowd of familiar faces with eager and welcoming smiles.

* * *

_Heeeere’s the first!_

_Sing “hup fol-de-rol la la la la”_ _  
_ _Here's the first_

_Sing "hup fol-de-rol la la"_

_He who doesn't drink the first_

_Shall never, ever quench his thirst_

_Here's the fiiiiirst-_

The group of men paused to chug their drinks. After all the ales and ciders were swallowed, they hit their glasses on the bar. Instantly, Birch refilled their cups, his pours steady but quick and not a single drop spilt. The men raised their glasses and bellowed the final verse-

_Sing "hup fol-de-rol la la!"_

The tavern patrons erupted in a great big cheer as they clinked their cups and took another swig. They swayed to and fro on their bar stools, bumping shoulder to shoulder with smiles on their faces.

“One more time!” cried the Cobbler, his cheeks redder than the fire that sparked in the center mantle.

“The four of you have been singing that song for the past 10 minutes,” Bluma remarked standing at the cellar door. The Cobbler looked to his right and saw the woman shake her head at him. This made him grin all the more.

“Aye! And we toasted for each time! Which makes that-” he closed his eyes and slowly counted on his right paw, “-at _least_ 10 shots!”

“15 if you’re sneaky,” the Farmer giggled from his seat down the row of men. He leaned back to see the Cobbler’s face, nearly falling to the floor if it weren’t for a hefty hemulen’s quick paws. Bluma rushed over to the animal with a worried look, but once she saw the tired look in the Blacksmith’s eyes she chuckled,

“A light little fellow he is.” 

The Blacksmith sighed and nodded at her as she carried on. With ease, the grey hemulen pushed the Farmer upright, prompting his little partner to cling to his sleeve. The small troll nuzzled against his arm and giggled, his face blushing. The hemulen motioned for Birch to come over, and when the bartender arrived he lifted his long ear and heard a deep voice whisper,

“ _Keep an eye on him please. I don’t want him to have a broken bone, he has to sell his veg tomorrow morning.”_

Birch laughed a bit, “Oh, yes of course, Eirik.”

“Another!” The Farmer laughed, slamming his cup down again. Birch nodded at him.

“Righto, my friend.” Birch took the glass and went to the sink to fill it with water. He handed it back to the drunken troll,

“Here you go,” Birch said with a wink at Eirik. The hemulen’s expression softened to a fond smile as he watched his partner swallow their ‘drink’. Birch laughed heartily in response, his yellow bows shaking like bells on top of his head. He turned towards the bar to pour another drink when his eye caught the Fisherman in the mirror, giving his glass a morose glare.

“Kalles! Would you like another round?” he asked him. Birch watched the Fisherman’s antlers shake side to side in the reflection.

“No thanks,” he replied dully. He sighed and mumbled,“Maybe later.” 

Birch turned and tutted at him. He approached and gave the poor man and patted his shoulder.

“Still thinking about that zander, huh?” Birch queried.

Kalles groaned and rubbed his brown snout furiously.

“I HAD IT!” he cried, making Birch jump back, “It was in my paws and then that bugger slipped away!” The creature rested his paws on his chin and released his breath, his dark eyebrows furrowing, “It’s probably laughing at me as we speak.”

“Oh don’t worry!” Birch said. He took his guest’s glass and went to one of the kegs to refill it with apple cider, “I’m sure fish can’t laugh. And I’m even more sure you’ll make the “big catch” in no time!”

“I better, ” Kalles responded, staring into space, “One gets bored fishing for trout and perches. I need something bigger, something exciting!” 

“I understand,” Birch said, nodding. He slyly passed the glass next to him and whispered, “ _But we mustn't get carried away with excitement, y’know._ ” The two met eyes and the bartender gave Kalles a knowing look, his eyes moving from him and to the drink. The Fisherman looked away sheepishly.

“Don’t know what you mean.” 

He took a sip from his glass and began humming a random tune. As much as that made Birch anxious, he decided to walk away and hoped that the troll had received the message. Bluma meanwhile went around the room to check on her guests. It wasn’t as full tonight, only a few of the village men arrived for the night. But nonetheless, the Tavern radiated warmth and merriment. She came upon a snoring Postman with his torso sprawled over the table and an empty cup knocked to the side. Tears of ale spilled to the floor and as she tiptoed around the man she made sure her shoes were clear from any drips.

“Aw poor dearie,” Bluma tutted, taking the cup from him. She patted his earmuff hat tenderly and passed by the Baker who was crocheting a scarf by the fireplace.

“And how are you, Pfeffer?” the mymble asked. The old woodie looked up at her with small, crinkly eyes.

“I’m well,” they replied softly, and went back to their work. Bluma beamed and made her way back to her husband and handed him the dirty glass.

“It seems very peaceful tonight. I hope it stays that way,” she told him. She knocked on the wooden counter three times for good measure.

“I agree,” Birch replied. Suddenly, he pouted to himself, “Although, I do wish a traveler would pass by tonight. It could liven the place up a little.”

“Are the boys not entertaining enough for you?” Bluma laughed. Birch shrugged and rolled his toes along the wooden floor,

“They are, they are! But still.” he looked out to the window and gazed at the moon, “It’s been a while. And they do love a good story.”

“Oh Birchy,” The mymble said softly as she drew him close to her, “They’ll come in due time, don’t worry.”

“You’re right, you’re right,” he uttered, nestling his nose into her chest.

“Besides. The cider’s keeping the guests occupied, seeing how we’re almost out of it,” she noted.

Birch blinked and looked up at her, brow furrowed.

“What do you mean?” 

“Well it’s nearly gone. Almost both the kegs are empty dear, I just went downstairs to check our supply.” Bluma withdrew from her husband, “You did say you prepared _three,_ correct?”

“Yes but only _one_ is almost gone, the one up here. There should still be two left down there,” Birch replied. 

Bluma frowned. She looked amongst the crowd again and narrowed her eyes.

“Interesting.”

She walked past the cellar entryway and grabbed the broom lying against the doorframe. The mymble started heading towards the stairs until Birch gently tugged on her dress.

“I swear none of them went down into the cellar and-” he started.

“I know, I know dear. I watched them,” she interrupted looking up the steps, “This might be a different matter entirely.” 

She turned to meet her husband’s face with a solemn look, “A thief perhaps.”

Birch smacked his paws to his cheeks and gasped.“ _Oh no_!” he cried in a hushed voice. 

“What is it?” Bluma asked, concerned.

 _“There’s a trail of footprints downstairs,”_ he whispered, making Bluma’s eyes widen. He looked about the room and the guests, twiddling his fingers, _“You don’t suppose someone would actually…”_

“I’m not sure. However-” Bluma held the broom in both paws and wielded it like a bat, “-better to be safe than sorry. I’m going to check upstairs to see if we have any “unexpected” guests.” 

Their attention broke to the sound of cheers from the bar. The Cobbler had snuck around the bar and snagged a refill of cider. He poured it from the keg and chugged it down greedily. The men roared with laughter and applause, lifting the tipsied whomper over the counter and back into his seat. Bluma’s eyes narrowed,

“Well I guess we have one suspect so far,” she said. She placed her attention back on her husband, “Can you keep the fort down while I investigate?” 

“Of course I can!” Birch replied. He took his wife by the paw and squeezed it gently, “Leave it to me, my flower!”

“Well you easily submit to peer pressure, dear,” she said bluntly. The comment made Birch’s cheeks flush and he chuckled.

“Ah, haha guilty.”

“Which is why-” she began, imploring him with her small green eyes. 

“Yes I know, I know. But I promise I won’t let anything happen. Cross my heart.” He looked back at her, his own eyes shining like stars. Bluma relinquished with a sigh.

“Alright. But remember.” She leaned in towards him and lowered her voice, “Don’t let anyone down that door. And _especially_ don’t let anyone touch that clarinet. The last thing I need is another goose chase.”

“Yes, understandable. Er, understood!” Birch said with a nod.

“So no matter how much they ask for it-” Bluma started.

“Yes, I-”  
“Or bribe you.” She inched closer to his face.  
“Bluma I can handle-”

“Or flatter you-”  
“Hey!” he cried, frowning. Bluma giggled and planted a kiss on his fuzzy forehead. His flushed cheeks spread across his whole face and made him a cherry red. A woozy smile spread his lips as his wife released the muddler’s paw and turned to go.

“Alright Birch. I’ll be back down soon! Watch those boys now!” 

And with that she made her way up to the second floor. Birch watched until she disappeared, still stuck in his happy daze. 

“Birch! Birch, another round please! Before the Cobbler takes it all!” A voice called to him. He awoke from his trance and spun to face the crowd. It was Kalles, waving his glass in the air. 

“Coming, coming!” he cried while running back over to the bar. He took the mug and filled it up with cider from the keg and handed it back to the Fisherman. Meanwhile, the Cobbler had mostly returned to his senses. He sat back up in his seat and exclaimed,

“ALRIGHTY! TIME FOR *HIC* ‘NOTHER VERSE!” He swayed in his chair and began to sing,

“ _Heeeere’s the first! Sing-”_

“Nooooo, no’ that oneee!” the Farmer slurred out. The Cobbler placed his cup down and shrugged,

“Well we have *hic* to sing something.”

“We don’t _have_ to sing anything,” muttered Eirik, swishing the liquid in his glass.

“Eirik’s right!” Kalles said, standing up, “Let someone change it up a bit. Looks like you fellas-” he pulled a small silver flute from his pocket and produced it high in the air. He raised his eyebrows proudly, “-are in need of a Piper. Eh?”

Everyone groaned. Birch, who observed the quarrel, felt his tummy bubble at the sight of his friend’s flute. He knew exactly where this was headed. He pretended to fiddle with the glasses and walk to the other side, whistling to calm his nerves as the scene before him progressed.

“Oh come now!” Kalles protested, “I don’t play that bad!”

With that he took a deep breath and blew into the flute. A strained whistle emitted from the instrument, making everyone recoil and cover their ears. Each continuous note was just as shrill as the next, an animal’s dying cries paled in comparison. It was so terrible in fact, one of the bar glasses from the top shelf retaliated and cracked itself straight in half. 

“STOP IT, STOP IT!” the Cobbler cried. He yanked the flute from the Fisherman’s paws, “You’ll attract a Groke with how horrid you sound!”

“Actually,” Pffefer said in a soft voice, catching everyone’s attention, “Grokes are attracted to heat. And with Kayle’s symphonies they’re anything but hot stuff.” The woodie put on a pair of earmuffs and continued his work. The patrons laughed, making Kalles turn red.

“It’s pronounced _Call-ess.”_ Suddenly, his eyes widened and he smiled devilishly, “And maybe I don’t have to play so bad. Maybe I could play with something _else?”_

The men stopped. A few began murmuring to each other while others looked at Kalles confused. 

“What say you, Birch?” Kalles said, peering at the bartender. 

Birch winced, nearly dropping the glass he was cleaning. He turned around and smiled nervously.

“I say you play your flute! I love the sound of a good _flute. Flutes_ are the best after all, they’re my favorite,” he said, his face plastered with a grin. Eirik gave him a strange look.

“They are but with _his_ music skills?” he questioned, nudging at the Fisherman. Birch nodded,

“Y’know I think we’re being too harsh on ol’ Kale Fish here!” the muddler said a bit too loudly, “I think he’s a wonderful player. No one sounds quite like him. He’s very er...unique!”

The guests weren’t amused. They stared at him, dumbfounded. Kalles crossed his arms, a cocky smile spreading his lips.

“Oh nonsense, Birchy. I think tonight is a special occasion, one that even my flute playing can’t compare to.”

Birch walked over to the Fisherman and gently placed his paw on him.

“N-now Kalles. Remember what I s-said earlier about-” Kalles grabbed Birch’s hand and held it up in the air triumphantly and cried,

“The Clarinet, Birch! Bring us the Clarinet!” The men perked up their heads and a chorus of realization passed along the bar. 

The Farmer, still hugging Eirik’s arm, mumbled, “Wha-? Clar’nut?”

“That’ll liven the place up a bit!” Kalles said. He lowered Birch’s arm and gave him a pleading look, “C’mon Birch. Please?”

The muddler gulped, sweat beading on his head. “N-no. I’m so-sorry Kalles but you recall what happened the last time,” he reminded him.

“I said I was sorry! Is Bluma still upset over that?” the Fisherman asked, releasing the bartender from his grip, “I can play one of her favorites to make it up to her.”

“No! That’s not the point-” Birch began to say until the Cobbler cried,

“Yeah! PLAY US A DIDDY!”

“No. Kalley can’t play *hic* he’s horrible,” The Farmer mumbled, shaking his head. Eirik patted his lover’s clinging arm and replied,

“The clarinet is magic, love. It’s enchanted to be played by even the worst musicians.”

Birch gave Eirik an exasperated look. He crossed his arms and exclaimed, “It possessed him! He ran through the town boasting about being the richest musician in all of the country.”

“True,” Eirik considered, “Although, if I had to pick, I would much rather humour ole’ Antlers than hear that blasted ear piercer again.”

“He made me cry last time. Such a lovely tuuune!” the Cobbler sighed wistfully.

Suddenly, Kalles and the Cobbler began chanting “Clar-i-net, Clar-inet” over and over, slamming their cups to the rhythm. The Farmer joined in, as well as the Postman who had awakened from his slumber and began mumbling along. Pfeffer continued knitting in his own little world. This left Birch with no one to turn to for reason, except his own reflection. The bartender let out a frustrated sigh. He wrapped his ears over his eyes. He needed to step away. He lowered his ears and scurried back down the cellar, the chantings growing louder each step he descended. 

_Why can’t they just be civil?_ Birch thought as he went down, _Or at the very least, not so demanding._ Regardless of how they were acting, Birch intended to keep his promise to his wife, no matter how loud they got. He made it down to the bottom floor and took a moment to compose himself. He focused his attention on his hair bows, which were undoing themselves to his annoyance.

“I suppose while I’m down here...” Birch thought aloud. While retying his bow he came over to the aisles of kegs further down for an inspection. Bluma was right. For the unused taps seemed to have been left up and there was cider dripping from the faucet. Birch began to wring his paws, looking about the cellar for anything else unusual. Who would do such a rude thing? Birch shook his head and drew a sigh. He passed by the shelves and felt his foot scrape across something. He jumped, thinking it was a rat or a bug. He looked down and saw it was just a piece of paper, his little note to himself.

“Oh!” He picked it up carefully, “Better put this back where it belongs.” The muddler stood on his toes and faced the shelf, “Don’t want anyone to think they can-” He froze. His eyes widened and the paper fluttered down to the floor yet again. It was gone. He was just staring at an empty shelf, the clarinet wasn’t in the place he left it. Birch frantically looked up and down between the other shelves, seeing if it fell towards the floor or if it had rolled off somewhere. 

_CAN THE INSTRUMENT SPROUT LEGS NOW!? WHAT MADNESS IS THIS_? Birch screamed in his head.

“Hey! Look what I found!” Kalles’s voice called from upstairs. 

And with the sound of cheers echoing from the top floor, followed by the sound of beautiful music, Birch’s worst fear came true. He bolted upstairs and when he got to the top, he couldn’t believe the sight he saw before him. It was Kalles, playing the clarinet effortless at the center of the dining room, tapping his feet on top of a table. The music sent the crowd into a lively jig as they laughed and hummed along. Birch tugged on his ears, his heart beating profusely in his chest like a drum. The men had gathered around the Fisherman, even the Postman had fully awakened to join the merriment. Birch nervously glanced towards the stairs; she was going to have his head. Birch wasted no time and made his way towards the villagers. On his way, he bumped into the Farmer who was standing near the fireplace. The small creature had a dumbfounded look on his face, his gaze fixated on the top mantle.

“Birrch...” he breathed, pulling the bartender close to his face. He looked up at the mantle again, “Can I pet your kitty?” 

“What?” Birch said, brow raised. The Farmer spread a giddy smile.

“It’s a big kitty, hehe. I want to pet,” he giggled.

Birch rolled his eyes and pushed the drunken troll away. He didn’t have time for drunken foolishness. Only for enchanted foolishness. He made his way to the hoard of men just as Kalles finished his tune and bowed. The men went wild, whistling and clapping to their heart’s content. 

“Thank you, thank you!” Kalles said, bowing.

“Kalles!” Birch cried, squeezing through Eirik and the Postman, “How on earth did you get that!?”

“Oh this?” Kalles said, inspecting the clarinet, “It just dropped from the fireplace right after you left! That’s not a good hiding place you know.”

“But I didn’t put it there!” Birch cried but his words were met with deaf ears. The Fisherman held up the instrument like a baton and enticed the crowd, asking,

“Alright! Any requests? C’mon don’t be shy!”

“Kalles, please don’t-” Birch began, his voice quivering.  
“The Sailor Humdrum!” the Postman suggested. Kalles pointed the clarinet at him,

“Oh that’s a good one but I played that last time. Anyone else?”

“Whomper’s Woes!” called the Cobbler. 

“No, we want to be jolly, not depressed.”

“Fathom the Booble,” Eirik said. Kalles put the tip of the reed to his chin and hummed.

“No, too overplayed.”

“Fathom the Mumrik,” Eirik replied.

“Too poetic and sappy!” Kalles cried. 

“Fathom the Moomin then.”

“What on earth is a Moomin? You made that one up!” The hemulen crossed his arms at the Blacksmith, “Are fathoms the only songs you know?” Eirik shrugged.

"How about someone from our own village!" The Cobbler cried, "I can sing along." 

"Wonderful idea!" Kalles exclaimed, "Who shall we sing about"

"The Tailor!" A voice called.

"No, the Baker!" Another said.

"The Accountant!"

"We have an accountant?"

During these debates, Kalles turned and looked out the window. There the moon hung in the sky, glowing amongst a sea of diamonds. Birch followed his gaze and his eye caught something strange. A small shape, or a figure he presumed, was moving past the moon as if they were flying. His eyes widened. He looked back at Kalles, who was grinning ear to ear.

"How about the Witch?" the Fisherman asked. The men fell silent and the merry smiles quickly vanished. Even the tipsy Farmer turned his head, grimacing at what Kalles suggested. They looked amongst each other hesitantly. 

"Kalles. Are you sure that's wise?" The Postman asked. He huddled closer towards Birch, who was petrified beyond belief. The Cobbler stumbled towards the table.

"Best not to speak of her. She *hic* she might be listening," he said, his voice low and stern.

"What are you all so afraid of?" The Fisherman cried, "I thought we agreed she was just a lonely old grump."

"Still," Eirik interjected, "You never know with witches." 

Kalles looked over at Birch if he had anything to say. The muddler couldn't speak. All he could do was shake his head at Kalles, his eyes pleading at him. He smirked.

"I think you all need to change your _tune_." 

And he started to play a lively haunting tune, a raven's call. The music wafted through the room at a steady rhythm, and soon enough it became infectious. The crowd’s uneasiness washed away and they began rocking to the sound, smiles spreading their faces once more.The mention of the witch seemed to vanish from their mind as they began cheering on the troll’s amazing melody. This encouraged Kalles to dance; his boots clicked against the wood as he continued to blow into the clarinet at ease, his fingers moving up and down on the key holes. Birch stood there, in awe with the sound and how nice the music was. He wasn’t cheering with the men but he was indeed taken by how beautiful Kalles played. The magic of the clarinet had indeed cast its spell once again. 

Birch broke from his trance when he heard the men clapping and yelling. He blinked and saw the Cobbler take the hand of the Fisherman as he hoisted him up with him to his side. The Cobbler tipped his grey pointy hat and started to sing,

“ _Within the woods, where no one’s been_

_Behind a wall, all draped in green_

_A Woman resides there, tall and lean_

_The Witch! The Witch and Her garden_ ”

He repeated the verse again, his voice high with drunken ecstasy as he danced in place with Kalles. The patrons clapped along as the Cobbler clipped his heels to the jovial tune, 

“ _Hair as dark as the midnight sky_

_Travels at night, no one knows why_

_Where does She go? Where does She fly?_

_The Witch! The Witch and her Garden”_

The Cobbler leaned forward and pointed at the men, 

“ _Who’s lean and green?”_

 _“The Witch! The Witch!”_ , the men sang back, hoisting their cups into the air. Birch looked around anxiously, he peeked out through the window. She could still be out there flying by. 

_“Who lives with the trees?”_

_“The Witch! The Witch!”_ The men huddled together, shoulder to shoulder as they swayed to the song. Birch reluctantly was pulled in, bumping between the Postman and Eirik. His cheeks burned red as the men felt quite warm to the touch. His eyes tore from the musicians to the stairs. There wasn’t any sign of his wife at all. Maybe she too was under its spell. He was still all alone handling this. He wanted to curl up and hide away.

 _“Who heralds such secrets? What does she see?”_ The Cobbler’s voice hushed to a low whisper as he bent down. Kalles accompanied the tone, his instrument fluttering an eerie chord as the men drew nearer to the pair, entranced.

“What does she do indeed?” the Cobbler asked, scratching his chin. The men whispered amongst themselves,

“Does she steal?”  
“Is she plotting a trap?”

“Is she raising a monster to ransack our village?”

“Maybe she just likes taking h-h-holidays,” Birch butted in, attempting to stop their overactive imaginations. All of them paused. Kalles stopped playing and gave the bartender a look,

“I don’t think so, my friend.”

The rest of the men hummed and murmured in agreement.

“However!” The Cobbler cried. He picked up a mug and bellowed,

 _“Who gives us good ale and cider? Who makes our nights all merry and bright!”_ He raised the mug high and the men followed suit, _“A toast, a toast! To you know who-!”_

Kalles put the clarinet to his lips and trilled a finale of notes as the men finished with a cry,

_“The Witch! The Witch and her Gaaaarden!”_

*SLAM!*

Mugs dropped to the floor and splatters of ale spewed from mouths. Everyone turned to the door and froze. Many of them gasped, some made no sound. Birch bit his tongue to hold back a scream. It was the Witch herself, standing in the door frame with her broomstick in hand. Her frame casted a long, thin shadow across the floor of the tavern, leading some men back up against the wall, unsure if the figure itself was alive. She scanned the room silently, her hooded face slowly over the crowd. Her head stopped at Birch, making his knees buckle and his throat lump up. With a motion of her head, she inclined Birch to follow her to the bar and she entered the tavern. As she stepped foot, the door behind her slowly closed all on its own. Birch climbed over the Postman and sprinted towards the counter, nearly tripping. He stood straight up, arms folded on the bar as he waited, eyes as wide as the moon. The villagers remained silent as she passed them, noticing her deep blue cloak trailing behind her. It glimmered and sparkled before their eyes, as if the sky had swaddled her by its hand.

“Oooo how pretty,” The Farmer uttered genuinely as she passed the fireplace. The Witch flashed him a look, wisps of black hair flying from under her hood. The troll nearly doubled over attempting to meet her gaze. Once he did, he giggled, making everyone tense up. His brow furrowed in confusion as he slurred,

“Funny eyes you have-” Eirik rushed over and clamped his paws over his partner’s mouth.

“Don’t mind what he’s saying. He’s drunk.” the Blacksmith said quickly. 

The Witch scoffed. She lowered towards the men where they could see more of her face. Amongst pale green skin, were two colored eyes. An icy blue on the right, and a deep rich brown on the left. Eirik tore his gaze away, putting one of his paws over his lover’s eyes who groaned impatiently,

“A wise decision,” the Witch remarked, “A Witch’s eye can reveal too much for his little head. He could go mad...” Her blue eye pulsated a bright glow as she leaned in towards them.

 _“But why tempt fate?”_ she said sinisterly.

Eirik and the Farmer said no more and with a one heave, the Blacksmith carried his boyfriend over his arm and skuddled towards the rest of the group. She watched them scurry off, her eye’s glow diminishing.

“Er, M-m-madam?” the bartender’s voice cracked.

The Witch turned her head to face Birch. He was holding up a glass and a bottle of rum, though they shook quite feverishly in his paws. She nodded at him and made her way to the bar counter.

“J-J-Just the us-usual?” Birch asked. He tried to smile through his voice cracks. The woman nodded again and sat down. She gently shoved her broomstick over the counter; it was old and worn, its bristles poking out like porcupine quills. Birch made his pour as steady as he could, but soon the glass was full, and he gave it to the Witch who was waiting patiently. She sat straight and poised, despite all eyes trained on her. She took the drink from his paws and began sipping and said nothing else. In fact, the entire tavern stayed quiet for a moment or two. Birch just stood in place, his body trembling as he waited for her to finish. As she drank, he heard the men whisper among themselves,

 _“What was that all about, earlier?”_ _  
_ _“You dolt, don’t you know it’s bad luck to look into a Witch’s eyes?”_

_“You see how you die-”_

_“You see your future.”_

_“Bad, ominous things.”_

_“Can’t believe you two almost lost your heads there.”_

She struck the counter with her glass, startling everyone. Under her hood, she revealed a little smile. Not at Birch, but it indeed made the bartender’s blood run cold at the sudden change in her mood.

“I’m sorry I interrupted your little song, gentlemen,” her voice chided in a syrupy tone. No one breathed. She picked up the glass and swirled the drink in a rhythmic pattern.

“Even if you did take some _artistic liberties,_ ” she commented dryly, taking another sip. 

The Cobbler gulped, nearly fainting off the table if it weren’t for Kalles holding him up. The Fisherman thought for a moment, examining the petrified faces of his friends. He looked down at the clarinet, the dark reed twinkling at him as the song they all sang echoed in his head.

“Well, tell us then,” Kalles asked the Witch. The woman nearly choked on her drink. She placed the cup down and whirled around in her seat to face the man. Birch and the rest of the men shot him a wide, fearful look of utter bewilderment. The whole room went tense as Kalles continued,

“Tell us your adventures,” he said, looking around anxiously, though he kept his composure, “Where exactly do you go at night? We only make up these tall tales because you yourself-” he laughed, “-are a _Tall_ tale. Full of mystery. We’re curious y’see.” 

Birch placed a finger to his lips, his eyes shooting daggers at him. How could he joke with her like that, was he mad?! His attention drew back to the madame in question. She remained still, her expression aloof. 

“Oh come on!” Kalles cried, smiling reassuringly, “We’re all neighbors, aren’t we? We don’t bite. In fact we should all introduce ourselves.” he nudged the Cobbler, who backed away and shook his head furiously, “Can’t a Witch humor us with a little bit of her escapades, hm?” 

Birch couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Before he could say anything, the Witch slowly stood up. She laughed, brushing a few dark locks from her sea foam colored face. She smirked.

“Humor you?” she said, her voice low and quiet, “Hmph. “Humor.” She began walking towards the men slowly, “Do you find misery “humorous”, dear fishmerman?”

Kalles raised his brow, “Well no I-”

“Oh well, humor is subjective after all,” the Witch interrupted, “Pain is misery, misery is comedy as you all know. It’s funny when it’s not happening to you.”  
“I didn’t mean actual humor, miss-” Kalles said, sweat beading his forehead. The men began backing away as she continued,

“But don’t you want to hear my stories? They’re quite funny. How about the one with the poor garden trolls locked underground. Who can’t even see the light of day due to their homes being torn asunder? Who can’t even eat or seek medicine in fear of getting caught or killed.”

“What? No er-”

“No? Too grim? How about the one about a clan of Fairies who have to hide in plain sight? To avoid the hands of Giants who torture them through awful experiments. Whose only goal is to expose their existence and use their powers for ultimate greed?”

“Wh-wh-who? Giants, I don’t know-” Kalles quivered. 

“Of course you don’t know!” the Witch cried, her blue eye beginning to glow as she approached closer and closer. Kalles backed away to the edge of the table, holding his clarinet as his only shield. Birch covered his face with his paws, but peeked through his fingers to watch. He prayed that she would have mercy on him. The Witch suddenly took a breath.

“You are all so lucky,” she said, her voice more calm, “You never have to fear being yourself. There’s no danger in your lives, that’s why you all seek it out. It’s why you crave these stories, why you lap up anyone outside of your village. You’re so curious about the world beyond those mountains. You are enamoured by anyone who doesn’t live in domestic bliss.”

She was now at the table. The Witch narrowed her eyes,

“So naive.”

She towered over the hemulen's shivering form, his once cocky smile now a trembling lip. He fell onto his backside and the clarinet fell from his hands and to the floor. Everyone in the Tavern held their breath as she lowered her face to him. Her eyes stared deep into his as she said loudly,

“Tell me, Fisherman. Do you think you could survive out there? Would you bring back stories for your friends? Unless you get eaten by a Nibling first. And if not a Nibling, then perhaps a Fenrir will get the job done.” Her eyes narrowed, “Would you like to take a walk in my shoes?” 

Kalles said nothing, he was too terrified to speak.

“Well?” She flashed a wicked grin, taking the breath away from the men who watched from afar. _“Humor me, Kalles._ ” 

The Fisherman’s face grew pale. His eyes went glassy as he stuttered to find something to say. But he couldn’t, his voice was gone.

“Always nice to see you, La’verne.”

Kalles screamed, making all the men jump. Birch placed his paws down and drew a sigh of relief, slumping back against the shelves. The Witch looked over; it was Bluma, smiling fondly holding a broom in her hand. The Witch’s evil smile disappeared and she straightened herself back up.

“Hello, Bluma,” the Witch replied politely. She gave a nod at the tavern keeper, “Are you having a good evening?”

Kalles body went limp from exhaustion as he laid along the table utterly drained. The men finally took the courage to come closer, just to check his well being. Bluma looked over at the fallen hemulen.

“I am. I came down to see if these ruffians were causing you trouble, but it appears you handled it quite well,” the mymble noted. 

The Witch hummed in agreement. She walked past Bluma and made her way towards the bar again. As she walked past the fireplace, she stopped, a confused look on her face. She turned to peer at the mantle, her eyes trained on it suspiciously.

“Do you have rats, Bluma?” 

The mymble rushed over, looking concerned, “I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”

The Witch continued peering at the mantle. Soon enough, she shrugged and said, “Nothing. I thought I saw something.”

“You must be tired. Come, dear,” Bluma said, touching her shoulder, “I can fix you up a plate of jam and bread.” The Witch rolled her eyes in bemusement.

“That’s very kind of you, but I’m afraid I’ve spent too much time here.”

The Witch patted Bluma’s paw and she continued towards the bar. She grabbed her broomstick off the counter and her eye caught Birch looking at her with uncertainty. The woman’s gaze softened and beckoned Birch to come over. With a gulp, the muddler stepped forward and leaned towards her.

“ _Er, a bottle of peach rum for 5 apples? I’ll give you a basket next morning,_ ” she whispered so the patrons wouldn’t hear.

“Oh!” Birch exclaimed in a hushed voice, “Sure! I can do-do th-hat!” 

He rushed towards the back of the bar and knelt down to a bottom shelf. As he rummaged, Bluma sat down next to her, laying her own broom across her lap. She smiled and said,

“You know you’re always welcome at the Tavern, La’verne.” The men began whispering yet again. Bluma turned and shot them a glare, stunning them silent once more.

“Perhaps we can have tea together, just the three of us!” she exclaimed.

“I’ll have to pass, thank you,” the Witch responded, avoiding Bluma’s kind eyes.

“Ah, well. You’ll relent someday!” Bluma chuckled, “But we understand.” 

The Witch hummed to herself and shook her head. Birch returned with a full bottle of rum and she took it kindly.

“Thank you.” she leaned forward to him again, “My apologies for what you had to witness.” Birch blushed and tapped his fingers together and said,

“Oh that’s qu-quite alright. It was nice seeing you.”

“Much the same,” The Witch replied. 

She rose to stand and with her bottle and broom in tow, she nodded at Bluma and Birch and bid them goodnight. The men watched her leave, all huddled close together in their group staring in awe. The Witch flashed them a sharp glare with her eyes, along with another grin at Kalles. The poor hemulen thinned his lips and looked away, his entire body trembling. She chuckled to herself; the door opened again through its own will and she walked out into the nightly air. The door slammed shut, prompting Bluma to scurry towards the window to watch her leave. A few of the men followed suit and hovered over Bluma, watching the figure walk down the cobblestone road towards the forest.

Birch wiped his forehead, sighing with relief and slumping across the counter, laying his head on the wood. By and large, not an awful night, but it was too much for his heart to handle. He needed to get rid of that stupid Clarinet by any means necessary.

“She’s gone! Let’s go for ‘nother verse!” he suddenly heard the Farmer cry. All eyes were on the creature who had picked up the clarinet from the floor. Bluma marched over to him as he began slurring out _“whoooo’s lean and green and sorta meaannn, tha’ Witch!-”_

Bluma took the clarinet from his paws and bonked him against the head with her broom. The Farmer dramatically fell to the floor, causing an uproar of laughter and cries from the Men. Soon the Tavern brimmed with conversations and reactions, all about the witch, now filled with the yearning to learn more about her. Some were more affected as the Cobbler and Kalles remained stupefied, both reaching for empty chairs to relax in and giving one another timid looks. The rest of the men spouted theories and their opinions loudly, requesting more ale and a round of the aforementioned jam and bread. Bluma rolled her eyes and came over to her husband, who was avoiding her gaze,

“Bluma. I’m sorry about the-” 

She put a finger to her lips.

“It’s alright, dear.” she motioned towards the Fisherman with a smirk, “I think our prime “musician” has finally learned his lesson, wouldn’t you agree?”

Birch put a paw to his mouth and stifled a laugh.

“You’re right. Maybe now he can put that energy to his fishing,” he added.

“You think fish like the flute?” Bluma asked. 

“Well you can tune a flute, but you can’t tuna fish,” Birch said. Bluma wheezed, both the couple laughed and embraced each other, looking over the now active crowd. The Tavern was warm and bright as ever and the moon still hung oh so high. And despite the small hiccup, everything was as it was with nothing out of the sorts. 

Or so they thought.


	2. The Unexpected Guest

It was past midnight once the drunken villagers retired for the evening. They left the Tavern with lifted spirits, many wobbling home one way or another, and eager to tell their sleepy wives and husbands about the exciting evening they had just experienced. Soon enough, the Tavern’s light began to dwindle. The chandelier candles shrunk to the size of corkscrews and the fire was mere embers, sparking the last of its heat. As the building died down for the night, the tavern keeper and the barkeeper busied themselves with a quick cleanup. Birch swept the dining room floor, absentmindedly humming the Fisherman’s tune. Meanwhile Bluma cleaned the dirty glasses over at the bar, giving up her search of finding a certain cider thief.

“Did you have any luck my dearest?” Birch mentioned in question from across the room, his eyes trained on the floor. He heard Bluma sigh loudly.

“No.” She dried the last glass and opened the cupboard underneath the counter. She started putting them away as she said, “Everything seemed as it was when I last left it. I’m afraid this thief had made off with our supply a while ago.”

Birch looked up towards the counter, his ears drooping, “Oh dear.” he hugged the broomstick to his side, “Perhaps I should’ve told you right away, Bluma. Forgive me.”

Bluma popped back up from under the counter when she heard her husband’s tone. She shook her head.

“Oh, I’m not angry at you dear,” she assured him. She turned on the sink faucet to wash her paws, “We never had this happen before. It wasn’t your fault.” 

Birch nodded and began sweeping again, “I think we just need a new lock for the outside doors, though. I’ll talk to Eirik in the morning and see if I can get that fixed.”

“That sounds like a plan!” Bluma called out happily. Birch nodded, his mood bright again. He swept up some dirt and chunks of food into his dust bin and a thought suddenly came to him. 

“Er, Bluma?”

“Yes?”

“You heard Kalles playing the clarinet earlier right? Along with the men?”

“Mmhm,” she said, smiling cheerily. 

“Oh…” Birch, surprised at her answer, tapped a finger to his chin. The faucet turned off and Birch opened his mouth to speak.

“I won’t lie, I was a bit worn out dealing with that thing,” Bluma interrupted with a laugh, “You at least kept them inside this time.” She turned around and walked towards her husband.

“Pardon?”

“Look dear. It doesn’t matter how Kalles or the others got their paws on this thing. You tried your best and you kept your head, and that’s what matters.” The clarinet was in her grasp as she approached him. Her cheery expression turned dower, as she placed a tender paw on the muddler’s shoulder and said, “Nonetheless, I should’ve come sooner so I apologize that I put you through that stress. Once La’verne arrived I-”

“Oh!” Birch put his own paw on hers and shook his head furiously, his golden bows falling like delicate snow, “My darling, it’s quite alright! There’s nothing to worry about, I feel fine. But thank you for thinking of me.”

Bluma nodded. She sighed, “I just wish we could get rid of that blasted thing. I tried using it for the fire the other night, y’know. Sadly, it’s immune to flames. And boiled water.” She looked down at her paws, “And apparently my own strength.” she curled them into fists, “Damn that magician!”

Birch covered his ears with a gasp, “You think he planned this?”

“Most likely. But he needed a place to stay that night so…” Bluma’s mind wandered and she scoffed, “No good deed goes unpunished I suppose. I hate to say that but-” she sighed, “-I just wish someone could take that instrument off our hands.”

Suddenly, an idea popped into Birch’s head. He gasped and cried, “What if we _can_ get rid of it?” 

Bluma raised her brow,“What do you mean?”

“I would like to try something-” Bluma flashed him a glare, “-I’m not going to play it!”

“What are you thinking then?” the mymble asked, crossing her arms 

Birch grasped the reed with one paw, thinking it might hear and whispered, _“At first I thought the clarinet could move on its own, but I think it was aided by a certain someone.”_

“Go on.” Bluma replied, confused but curious.

Birch leaned in closer to her, shaking excitedly.

“I swear up and down that I placed this in the cellar.” he said quietly in her ear, “On the highest shelf I can reach. And I even put a note there like you said. But for some reason, Kalles found it upstairs. He told me it fell from the fireplace mantle.”

Bluma thought for a moment then replied, “I think this thief was playing tricks on you, love. This certain stranger definitely moved it.” A thought came to her and her eyes widened. “And maybe-!”

“-maybe they’ll come back for it as well!” Birch finished, the couple clasping paws at their realization, “Perhaps this thief might make their return to pick up a certain souvenir, hm?” He smiled proudly at her, wiggling his eyebrows, “And maybe do us a little favor?”

Bluma chuckled, “You might be right,” she frowned, “I’m still angry for what they did. I don’t want them off scot free.”

“Rightfully so!” Birch agreed. Bluma placed the clarinet back on the mantle and began rolling up her dress sleeves.

“Once I find them sneaking about here I’ll-”

“Wait! Wait!” Birch ran after her, tugging on her dress, “I know you’re upset but I think I should handle this. Y’know. To redeem myself!”

Bluma gave him a sympathetic look, “Birch you really don’t need to do that. Besides, I’m afraid this person might hurt you.”

“Well to be fair, they must be quite tipsy after guzzling down at least two kegs worth of cider.” Birch noted, “I know I’m not a strong animal, but you’ve seen me take down one of our drunken men. No effort at all, you blow on them and they topple over like newborn Hattifatenners.”

As he said this, Birch’s eyes grew as wide as the moon, gazing at his wife pleadingly. Bluma, knowing she couldn’t resist, relented with a sigh,

“Alright, alright!” With a small smile, she bent forward and kissed the top of Birch’s head, “I’ll leave it to you then. But please call me down if that thief returns.” She narrowed her eyes and said in a hushed voice, “And don’t wait up too long.”

Birch giggled, his heart fluttering with love. Bluma released her paw from the clarinet letting Birch cradle it in his arms,“ I’ll douse the fire while I keep watch.” He squeezed her paw, “Good night, my love.”

Bluma smiled and squeezed back, “Good night, my hero.”

His eyes twinkled at her and they parted. She retreated her way towards the stairs and started going up. As soon as the sound of footsteps ceased, he dove into action. Sneakily, he reached up and placed the clarinet on the mantle. He walked backwards towards the kitchen, keeping his eyes trained on the clarinet. Each step was careful, it took a lot of balance and concentration not to trip over his big feet. He hit the door and quickly turned to run inside. In seconds, he came back into the dining room with a box of baking soda in his paws. The clarinet was still lying there. Birch sighed with relief and scurried to the fireplace. He knelt down and scooted himself deeper into the center, pulling the poker from the nearby stand and started spreading out the wood and embers. The muddler stopped midway to hear anything; he stood back up and his eyes caught the clarinet on the mantle. He nodded reassuringly to himself and went back to work. Birch couldn’t help himself, and whilst pushing the embers and wood away in a rhythmic motion, he hummed the haunting tune again. He had to hand it to Kalles and the Cobbler. It was quite catchy. He couldn’t stop himself; the melody wafted into the Tavern once more,

“ _Within the woods, where no one’s been_

_Behind a wall, all draped in green_

_A Woman resides there, tall and lean-”_

_“-The Witch, The Witch and Heeeer garrrden_ ” a random voice sang from above.

He smiled to himself; even hours after he had left, Cobbler’s voice still lingered crystal clear within the dining room. Soon enough the embers of the fire died down to a faint glow. Birch picked up his shovel and scooped up the ashes and continued,

“ _Hair as dark as the midnight sky.”_

He patted the ashes over the embers, smoothing them down,

_“Travels at night-”_

_"-no one knows why. Where does She go?Where does She fly?”_ the voice sang again. Slowly, Birch stopped scooping the ashes. Wait a second. This voice sounded all too real. He wasn’t alone.

_“The Witch! The Witch and her Garrrrrrrrrden”_ the voice bellowed out. Loud and as rich as any voice. And it was coming from above Birch. He held his breath. He stood as still as a statue, moving his eyes to and fro nervously. It must be the thief, it must be.

“H-h-hello?” he called out. Noticing the chimney, Birch crawled deeper into the fireplace, being careful not to step on the embers. He peeked up the throat, seeing if anyone was in there. It was completely empty. With his body trembling, he slowly backed up out of the fireplace on all fours, readying himself.

“I’m-I’m sorry to-to sa-sa-say,” Birch called out, still facing the ashes. His lip quivered, “We’re-we’re closed for the ev-evening.” He rose to squat out of the fireplace. But he didn’t get far, for he felt something hard hit against his neck. He froze, his entire heart beating so loud and fast he thought it might burst. Carefully with his paws, he reached behind him to feel what he collided with. It was not one, but two things. Both leather to the touch. Birch continued to back up, letting the objects brush against his ears until they dangled before his eyes. It was two black boots, pointy and caked in mud. His eyes continued up and saw the legs that were attached, dressed in a dark material. And with all the courage he could muster, Birch looked straight up to the mantle to face who these feet belonged to. At first, he couldn’t scream, his voice seemed to have pulled straight from his throat or it had sunk so far into his belly he couldn’t find it. For he caught the gaze of two big glowing blue eyes, looking down at him. A Chesire grin shimmered with them and from this smile a voice came with it and said,

“ _Good Evening._ ” 

Birch screamed. He flung himself backwards and slammed into a nearby table. He hugged around the edge and scooted to the other side, cowering behind it so only his face was visible. Even from far away, the intruder’s bright blue eyes seemed to bore into him like a beacon. It was hypnotic, it was hard to look away yet Birch dreaded every moment. They were so uncanny and unlike the muddler had ever seen: their irises were wide but feline, they weren’t blinking as they trained their gaze on him. Birch swore he caught speckles of gold in the deep blue, but he was too transfixed to tell. The smile in the darkness disappeared.

“How wasssss I?” the person asked, their voice deep and their words slurry, “I really liked that song. *HIC* I’m usually no good with woods-” the person laughed, their feet swaying playfully, “Hah, sorry. _Words_ myself. Words take too much time away for better...better...good things. Like sleeping for insssss..tancee...” The stranger’s eyes began to droop and they swayed back a bit. With a hiccup, they jolted back upright. Their pupils met Birch again, rolling like marbles.

Birch didn’t know what to say or do. He dug his claws further into the table for dear life. He remained there, his eyes glued to the intruder. What could he do? Was this the thief? If so, what _were_ they? A monster? A spirit? More importantly, were they dangerous? They did have very sharp teeth, at least from where he was sitting.

“Y-y-yes,” the muddler squeaked out. The tavern was a bit darker now, and all he could make out was a silhouette against the bright blue hue of this person. The blue eyes narrowed at him, twinkling again with mischievousness.

“Can. Can you do me a favor, little muddler?”

“What,” Birch replied, his voice not even loud enough to hear, though the stranger continued,

“Can you make the room stop...” the person trailed off. Birch waited. And waited.

“Stop what?” Birch asked, sitting up a bit more.

“Spinning.” the stranger finally said, “It keeps rocking back ‘n forth. I don’t think I snuck on board a ship but right now I can’t remember many many things. So if you would be so kind.”

Birch raised his brow. A sudden thought came into his head as he released his grip on the table. Indeed, it appeared that the thief was incredibly intoxicated. The muddler felt his bravery return,

“Are you alright?” the bartender asked, confidence creeping back into his voice. The stranger rubbed their eyes and laughed,

“I feel stupendous! Over the moon!” they hiccuped. They gave Birch a sly look, “Although alcohol can go both ways.”

“Alcohol?” Birch replied. He stood up, looking suspiciously at the person, “What _kind_ of alcohol?” The stranger started to giggle. He clicked his heels together as he swung them back and forth.

“Ahhh don’t you see? You make looooovely cider. I love cider and I drank all of yours up. You’re a talented brewer and I thank you for that.” The stranger replied happily. 

“SO IT WAS YOU!” Birch cried, pointing accusingly at the intruder, “You’re the culprit! What do you have to say for yourself?”

The stranger blinked at him slowly and said nothing. Birch tapped his foot impatiently,

“Well!?”

“Well what?” The intruder said.

“What do _you_ have to say for yourself?” the muddler repeated, “What excuse do you have for stealing our goods?” He noticed the clarinet still laying on the mantle beside the stranger. His eyes widened, “And you’re probably guilty for moving that clarinet aren’t you?”

“I am.” they said.

“Well?” Birch was a bit exasperated, “Why did you!?”

The stranger narrowed their eyes and said genuinely, “I don’t understand notices.” 

Birch was taken aback. His expression softened,

“Oh dear.” the muddler said, his voice brimmed with sympathy, “You can’t read? I’m sorry to hear that, but that doesn’t excuse what you did.”

“No, No.” the person interrupted, “I understand words perfectly well. Wait,” the thief thought a moment, “Written words are a bit hard, yes you’re right I can’t read that well. But what I mean is I don’t _understand_ them anyways.”

Birch scratched his head, “Sorry, I don’t follow.”

“Yes you do follow. You follow all of them. Muddlers and Fillyjonks and-” the person stopped swinging, their face scrunching with disgust, “- _Hemuls._ Especially them.” 

Birch looked around, thinking this was all an elaborate joke, “Follow what?” he asked, more confused.

“RULES!” The person exclaimed proudly, their deep voice rattling the room and making Birch cower. The thief put a paw to his lips, “Apologies. Listen here: Joxters don’t follow any rules.”

The name was foreign to Birch, which made the muddler suddenly excited for not only was he in the presence of a thief but perhaps a traveler.

“ _Are_ you a Joxter?” the bartender asked, his fears falling away and forming into intrigue.

“Indeed.” The Joxter said with a nod, “Signs are useless you see. They only heed us.”

“Heed us?” Birch repeated.

The Joxter explained, “Heed us from freedom. From our own choices and consequences. No one should feel guilty or burdened by just a slip of paper or a wooden picket. A tree doesn’t tell us how to think or act. Trees are our friends, not to be made our enemies. We make our own choices in this life, and everyone is capable of living with the consequences. For example-” they picked up the clarinet and twirled it around in their paws, “-I choose to take this clarinet. I don’t let your silly note dictate what I should or shouldn’t do with it. I desired to take it. And now I have.”

Birch, hooked on every word the Joxter was spewing, broke from his trance and frantically waved his arms at the person,

“No! No! Put that down, don’t play it!” he cried. The Joxter stopped twirling the instrument, though they didn’t release. They laughed, put the reed in their lips and began the tune all soft-like. Birch rushed over shushing them,

“No no! My wife will hear you! STOP!” 

The Joxter didn’t stop, they continued playing, tapping their heel against the mantle. Birch quickly grabbed onto their boot and looked up at them pleadingly,

“Alright alright! I won’t heed you anymore!” he said through gritted teeth, “But be warned my wife is angry at you and if she sees you with the clarinet…” the little animal gulped thinking at the possible scenarios. The Joxter stopped playing and hummed to himself,

“Yesssss and what a lucky fellow you are. Mymbles are extraordinary.”

“Why-why yes. They are.” Birch replied, blushing. Does this person know of Mymbles? Are they from here? They sure don’t seem to be.

“Catch,” The Joxter said and they rocked forward off the mantle and towards Birch. The bartender squeaked and quickly caught the stranger in his arms, their entire body limp and sprawled all over him. The clarinet fell to the floor as Birch hoisted them up by their bottom. The poor muddler’s knees began to wobble and bend; this person wasn’t extremely heavy but Bluma did most of the lifting, so he was stuck with his scrawny arms that were only good for his pours. Grunting, Birch gasped out,

“Why...why did you…” His knees buckled and he stopped himself before they both tumbled to the floor. Taking a few steps to straighten himself, he slowly began his way towards a chair. 

“Floor too far.” The Joxter simply stated, nuzzling his face against Birch’s cheek. The muddler’s face flamed red, making him gulp with the warm sensation. The Joxter added in a seductive tone, “Besides, you seem like quite a catch yourself, eh?”

_Oh my oh my_ Birch thought aloud in his head. They then adjusted themselves to allow Birch to cradle them, their arms hooked around their neck. Their hat pushed up against the muddler’s head blocking his view. All he could smell was tobacco and cider. The Joxter hummed again all contempt and sleepy,

“Head to the door, muddler dear.”

“Al-Alright.” Birch flustered out. A low rumble emitted from the cozy stranger as he wobbled towards the door. Were they purring? Birch’s thoughts were entangled as he carried the stranger and finally made it to the door. He attempted to unhook one arm from under the Joxter’s bottom, but he feared that he would drop them. Without a word, the Joxter kicked his right foot into the door handle,

“Stand back, please.” 

Birch complied and allowed Joxter to swing it open with his boot. Birch caught the door with his back and pushed them both outside. The moon was still high, and glowing ever so brightly and full. Birch looked up at it, now exhausted and panting.

“Thank you,” The Joxter said. He stood on his feet but kept his grip around Birch, his face still intimately close. The door shut behind them and they both leaned against the wall looking at the sky. The Joxter rocked them both side to side.

“S’ Beautiful evening.” the stranger slurred out. Birch glanced to his left to look at him. Their blue eyes shined in the evening light. Birch nodded, his heart beating and his face sweaty. It was just like his first date with Bluma, although not as strange of a circumstance. And this person, while flirty, wasn’t as dashing as her. They were a bit of a mess. In the moonlight, Birch could see their red hat, a little floppy but still long and pointy with a little rope wrapped around the top. They were wearing a long brown coat embroidered with red patches, some were already falling off the seams. Their pants were dark and wrinkly, the leg only going just over their high heeled boots. A yellow scarf draped around their neck, halfway undone with one strand catching the faint night wind and waving to Birch from behind.

“So this witch….”

Birch shot his gaze back up, embarrassed, “Pardon?”

“Where does she live, this witch?” The Joxter asked, still looking at the moon, “Where is this infamous garden?”

“Um. Uh…” Birch caught himself. He didn’t know what this stranger was doing to him, but he couldn’t act so careless. He tried to wiggle his way out of the Joxter’s grip, “I can’t tell you.”

The Joxter readjusted his paws so that he turned Birch’s face to him. The muddler found himself staring at two sleepy pools of blue as they drawled out, “And whyyyy not?”

Birch blushed again. 

“You must know where it is, little muddler.. It doesn’t do you good to lie.” 

Birch pulled away, the Joxter’s grip finally releasing from his shoulder. The bartender smacked against the door frame as he looked away from the person, who merely slumped back down to the ground ever so smoothly. 

“I...I do know where.” Birch started, rubbing his paws and avoiding eye contact, “But knowing _you,_ you might try to break into her garden.” He looked at them, “I’m right, aren’t I?”

The Joxter chuckled. They rested their hands behind their head as they leaned comfortably against the doorframe, “Correct.”

“I’m sorry but you can’t! I mean you shouldn’t.” Birch warned, “The Witch doesn’t like visitors, let alone trespassers. Unless you want to keep your tongue in your mouth and-and your whiskers on your face, don’t cross her.” Birch gave him a knowing look, “Witches are powerful, y’know.”

“So they all say.” Joxter waved his paw lazily and closed his eyes, “I’ve crossed paths with many witches in my life.”

“You have!?” Birch cried. 

The Joxter nodded, “And I’ve met many people like you who have said the same.” They made their voice high and nasally, “ _Don’t make trouble with a witch! You’ll die, she’ll turn you to morning dew, they’ll make you into a rose bush,_ and so on and so forth.” The Joxter opened one eye, “And yet, here I sit.”

“You’re a lucky fellow.” Birch commented, hungry for more stories. The Joxter snorted and shook his head,

“I’m entirely the opposite. I-” They stopped, thought about something and waved their paw again and shrugged, “Nevermind. Also, I thought you said you would stop “stopping” me.” They closed their eyes waiting for Birch’s response. Birch huffed, quite tired and confused,

“I did but-” Birch groaned, “Why do you want to go to her? Didn’t you see what happened to the Fisherman? She doesn’t hold back.”

The Joxter chuckled and shook his head. Birch frowned.

“What’s so funny?”

“Oh, I’m not laughing at you, Birch.” The Joxter replied. Birch blushed when they said his name. The muddler rubbed his paws anxiously, the Joxter said nothing more making this quite awkward. Well instead of catching a thief he was torn between keeping them, which meant allowing them to cause more trouble. Or would it just be best to let them go about their business? Birch waited, his eyes darting from the moon and back at the drifting stranger. He approached them closer and asked,

“How about I prepare you a bed for the night? You seem awfully tired.” Birch crouched down to the drunk intruder. An idea came to him, a certain bargain, “And maybe I can cook you up a nice stew? And some more cider hm? Then you can tell me all about your other witch encounters, how does that sound?”

The Joxter’s eyes snapped open, making Birch jump. Before he moved back, the stranger had taken Birch’s paw and hoisted themself up. They lost their balance and almost fell again if it weren’t for the timid animal catching them. They both held onto each other’s arms. The Joxter smiled and began walking away, taking Birch with him and drawing him close. Birch again felt quite hot. He wished his heart wasn’t as big as it was. And that he wasn’t so affectionate. 

“An excellent ideaaaaa,” they drawled out as they walked down the road. The Joxter yawned, putting his head on Birch’s shoulder “But I shall have to decline your offer. Perhaps some other time.”

The muddler spat out stray dark hairs tickling his lips, “You’re not seriously going to find her are you?!”

“You’ve never met a Joxter before, have you?”

“N-no,” Birch revealed, “I haven’t. You’re a strange troll.”

“Am I so strange?”

“A bit yes!” Birch cried, “Usually when one is told not to do something, they don’t do it.”

“Well I’m not that person,” Joxter replied.

“I know.”

“It’s in my nature to ignore those directions.”

Birch stopped. They stood still as the muddler repeated, “In your nature?”

“Yes.” The Joxter nodded, “I do everything I’m told not to, like I said. It’s not a choice I make necessarily. It’s in my blood. I have to do it. It’s the order of things.”

“I see,” Birch said slowly, “Like how...Hemulens obsess. Fillyjonks are clean. So Joxters are-” he looked earnestly in the foreigner’s eyes, “-carefree.”

“Ahhhh.” The stranger squeezed Birch tighter and winked at him, “I knew you Muddlers were clever creatures.” 

“NOW HOLD ON!” Birch exclaimed. He tore himself from the Joxter’s grip and tugged their sleeve to make them stay put, “I know I can’t change your nature, but what does this have to do with the Witch?”

“Was it about the Witch? I can’t recall?”

“Don’t play games with me,” Birch uttered angrily. 

“I’m not, I actually don’t remember,” Joxter said genuinely. Birch rolled his eyes,

“Please. Why do you want to meddle in her business?”

“Because,” Joxter started, “Because she has something I desire, for the moment at least.” They yawned again, making Birch narrow his eyes at him,

“Is it something that I can give you as well?”

The Joxter smiled slyly, “Not exactly.”

Birch released their arm and rolled their eyes, “Well have fun finding her then! I won’t take part in these foolish endeavors,” He turned back to the Tavern and started to go, “Have a good night!” 

Birch yelped as Joxter grabbed his paw once more and said in a low voice, “Wait.” 

Birch looked back at him nervously, “What?”

“I don’t usually do this. Or do I?-” They closed one eye to recollect. It didn’t work and the Joxter continued, “-well consider it a first. I can offer a favor if you tell me where she is.”

Birch raised his brow, “Oh? Will you?”

“You and your wife need something delivered. Is that correct?”

The muddler’s eyes widened, “Yes…” he gasped, “Oh! Will you? Will you do this for us?”

The Joxter nodded, “But don’t expect this ever again. I’m only doing it for my own needs.” Birch nodded profusely. Joxter released his paw and said, “Go get it,” and the muddler rushed to the Tavern and ran inside. Seconds later, he emerged back onto the street with the clarinet in his paws and ran back towards the stranger.

“Alright.” Birch kept his voice low as he told them, “She resides in a cottage in the woods. You can’t miss it, just follow the path until you find a large garden wall covered in ivy.” He handed Joxter the clarinet but quickly grabbed their paws once they touched it, “This is an enchanted instrument. If you play it, you might be affected by its spell. Be warned.”  
The Joxter scoffed and wiggled his paws off of Birch’s grip, “Don’t worry, Birch. It’s too much work to play it. I won’t trifle with it anymore.”

Birch watched them tuck the clarinet under their arm and said kindly, “Thank you.” 

A lot of confusing emotions were swimming in his brain: guilt, frustration, confusion, curiosity. But at least one problem would be solved, “I’m not too worried. You did say you’ve encountered many witches before, correct?”

“I have.” The Joxter smiled proudly.

“Just be careful,” Birch told him, his eyes pleading at him.

“Oh, I will. I have my ways of knowing when I won’t be.” The Joxter didn’t elaborate. With their right paw, they lifted their hat and nodded at them, “Good night.”

“Good night,” Birch repeated. They nodded and turned to go. Birch watched the traveler walk down the cobblestone road, their movements a little more sober but still wobbly all the same. Though their balance was yet to be intact, they walked like they owned the streets, without a care in the world. They began whistling the tune as they passed the houses, which made Birch call out,

“If you ever need a place to stay or anything at all. You know where to find us!”

The Joxter waved his paw to indicate he heard. Birch held his own paws and continued watching the creature walk, until they bobbed out of sight behind a hill. They were gone. The muddler was at a loss for words. Was that real? Was this all a dream? Perhaps he had just imagined all of this and everything was just as it was. And if not. Then he had to reassure himself that it would be. This Joxter person seemed very confident in his ways. And La’verne won’t hurt him. Hopefully. Maybe. Oh dear. He looked back up at the moon once again, hoping she would bring him an answer. Though she had no eyes or nose, her face was telling him it was late, and that it was about time to turn in for the night.

Birch walked home in a bewildered trance. Perhaps he can settle his thoughts over a glass or two of cider. Though Bluma might be worried about him. And probably wondering what took him so long. He decided to bring the whole bottle to the bedroom and allow him and his wife to ndulge for an hour or so. After a long night like this, it’s what they both deserved. And he was afraid what tomorrow might entail for their village.


End file.
